


Hunting My Dress

by frondescence



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frondescence/pseuds/frondescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is ruthless. Various moments of Lyna Mahariel's life. Mostly Mahariel/Alistair-centric. Chapter 7: "I may have been a little unfair to you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. six weeks

                He wakes to find her gone from their bed, the sheets damp with sweat where she had been.

                He finds her outside, barely clothed against the cold. She leans against the balcony, staring with glazed eyes over her keep, idly stroking the head of the whining mabari beside her. She makes no acknowledgment of his presence.

                "Nightmare?" he offers gently. He doesn't get the darkspawn dreams anymore, five years after the Blight, but he knows that she still does sometimes. She hesitates, then shakes her head _no_. He stays quiet then, difficult as it is. Moonlight flows like liquid over her silver hair. Minutes drip like hours in the silence.

                Finally she speaks up, the words thick and quiet in her mouth: "Tamlen--my dream, I mean." Alistair feels a faint twisting in his chest and waits for her to continue, though he's not sure if she will. For a long few moments she doesn't. Then she sighs, and her head sinks down to her arms.

                "It was just…us. Together. A long time ago. Before all this. I can't--" She makes a noise somewhere between a quiet laugh and a sob. "He haunts me, emma lath. I wish he would stop."

                He remembers, long ago, when Tamlen appeared. How she clutched his twisted body close to hers, smearing herself with his putrid, tainted blood. How she pressed her forehead to his, sobbing strange words Alistair couldn't understand, the only thing he could pick out a broken " _Tamlen, Tamlen, Tamlen._ " How, when he reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder, she twisted around in rage, the point of her knife screeching across his breastplate before she ran off to her tent.

                Later that night she emerged from her tent and crossed camp to speak quietly with Zevran. Together they dug a shallow hole in the soft earth, where she placed Tamlen's remains and buried some small thing from her pack. Zevran left her with a gentle hug then, and Alistair could have sworn he heard her singing. She returned to the fire to silently clean her weapons, then retired to her tent. She did not speak of the incident again.

                Now, Alistair lays a hand on her shoulder, and she turns to embrace him. "Ma serannas," she whispers into his chest, and he softly kisses her hair, feeling relieved and uneasy at once.

                Lyna Mahariel was his first love, but he knows that he was never hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Alone, I fight these animals.  
> Alone, until I get home."  
> \- Of Monsters and Men//Six Weeks


	2. portrait

                Shortly after the Blight, Queen Anora asked Lyna to pose for a portrait, to be hung on castle walls. Lyna said no.

                She said no five times, in fact, until Alistair convinced her that it would "be good for human-Dalish relations" and promised her that Anora would probably leave them alone for the rest of their lives, having established some semblance of a positive relationship between herself and the Hero of Ferelden. So Lyna finally relented, on the condition that the portrait have a few personal touches.

                And if there was anything positive about the whole experience, it was the shems' reactions when she showed up to pose, barefoot, with a painted mabari and a wolf walking beside her. (One fussy, visiting noble nearly jumped out of his skin, at which point Alistair clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Be thankful she didn't bring the bear.") Shortly, though, she'd been whisked away to be dressed by a gaggle of elven servants, stuffed into layer after layer of what she was assured were the finest Orlesian silks, Ferelden furs, Antivan dyes, and so on. Frankly, she was already regretting her decision to do this.

                When she was finally allowed to look in a mirror, she didn't care at all for what she saw. The dress was _garish_ to her eyes, black and gold and blue and gray, everything inlaid with pearls and trimmed with fur. They'd given her a titanic necklace that she was sure was worth several hundred sovereigns, and some ridiculous round hat with a veil that covered nearly all of her hair. The only thing she really liked was the long fur cape, which, she was sure, would come in handy on a winter hunt. She wondered idly if they would let her keep it.

                Posing was, however, the worst part by far. She stood stiffly for what felt like _ages,_ glaring at the artist behind his easel. Her mabari stood faithfully to her right, and the increasingly-restless wolf to her left, which the painter had said "represented her dual nature." To be honest, she'd only wanted them there for comfort. She always felt uneasy within castle walls.

                At some point, Alistair came in, greeted by a happy bark from the mabari and an exasperated sigh from the artist. "Lyna! You look…interesting." he said, looking somewhat puzzled. Lyna laughed, her tension dissolving for the first time all afternoon. "Thank the Creators. I was afraid you'd say I looked _good_ in this awful thing."

                "It's not…terrible," Alistair said diplomatically, "but it's not _you_ , either. Though, my dear lady, you know I'll say you look good in anything." He shot her a devilish grin and she laughed again.

                The painter self-consciously cleared his throat. "Lady Mahariel, I've finished the sketch. You can move now, if you wish." Immediately Lyna tore off her hat and the heavy necklace, throwing them both to the floor. "Move?" she scoffed, "I'm leaving. I trust you can finish it without me."

                "Oh," the painter said, startled, "don't you at least wish to see the sketch?" She didn't, really, but she shot it an uninterested glance as she walked toward the door--and froze.

                "You forgot my tattoos."

                "Ah," the painter stammered, "I thought that, given my lady's--ah--I thought it might be prudent to--to…" Lyna's hand flexed to the spot on her hip where her dagger would normally be, and, as if on cue, both mabari and wolf began growling. The painter shrunk back and fell silent.

                "Listen, _shem_ ," Lyna spat, nearly towering over him despite being a good head shorter. "You _will_ paint my tattoos, or I'm going to throw this idiotic _shem_ painting out that _hideous_ shem window." (Alistair, meanwhile, was struggling not to laugh, despite feeling somewhat sorry for the poor man.) "Ah--yes, ser," the painter eventually managed, and, satisfied, Lyna left the room, her animals (and Alistair) in tow.

                She never did see the finished painting, but Leliana told her of it years later, after a brief visit to the castle. She told Lyna that next time she should let _her_ pick the dress, and that _yes_ , the tattoos were there, and they were beautiful.


	3. what the water gave me

                "I want to talk about what happened. At Redcliffe."

                Lyna could hear the rage barely concealed in his voice, and for a moment she considered pretending she hadn't heard him. She was so, so tired; Redcliffe had been an absolute ordeal, and she wasn't _quite_ in the mood to be scolded by her "fellow" Warden. But after a long sigh, she slowly set down her bow and turned around. "I don't really want to talk about it now," she replied, her voice almost painfully civil.

                "You _killed_ Connor. You killed him—a little boy. How could you _do_ that?" His voice narrowed into an angry hiss; Lyna had never seen him act this way, and she might have laughed had she not been so surprised.

                "Maybe you missed," she replied lowly, "the part where he was possessed by a demon?"

                "You could have let the Arlessa sacrifice herself. Lady Isolde is the one who started all of it, isn't she? Blood magic or no, if one of them had to die it should have been her. This is the Arl's _son_ we're talking about, here! What do you think he'll say when we revive him?" Alistair's voice grew louder, now, his hands cutting trembling lines through the air. Lyna remained silent, feeling frustration boil up at the back of her tongue.

                "I just don't see how you could do it; how you could make that decision," he said. "I owe the Arl more than this."

                She couldn't hold back anymore. She stepped forward, her eyes just meeting his chin: a wolf at a deer's throat. " _You_ don't see how _I_ could do it?" Now she really did laugh, a short, spiteful bark. "No, of course you don't. You put me in charge and now you have the _gall_ to criticize my decisions? Take the lead if you wish, coward—" she punctuated this with a rough shove to his chest, and turned to disappear into her tent. "I never wanted this anyway."

*

                He approached her the next morning, as she oiled her bow in the pale light of dawn. He approached timidly, his armor creaking loudly in the silence, and sat beside her by the dying embers of the fire. This time she was determined to ignore him.

                But when he spoke his voice was quiet, and gentle, and she couldn't help but incline her head just slightly toward him. "What you said last night...that you 'never wanted this.' What did you mean?" She took a deep breath, and stifled the lump that threatened to grow in her throat. "I meant what I said," she replied. She had finished tending her bow now, but pretended to examine the string in order to avoid his gaze. "You...never wanted to be a Grey Warden," he said, slowly. She snorted. "Was that not obvious, Alistair?"

                "But you were tainted before Duncan found you." His voice grew incredulous; he leaned forward to try to see her face past the curtain of her hair. "You'd rather have _died_ than become a Warden?" She exhaled sharply, almost shakily, and replied, "Yes." Then suddenly she stood, her bow clattering to the dirt. "I have to go talk to Morrigan," she muttered.

                And as he watched her retreat, briskly and stiffly, across the camp, Alistair knew that Lyna was right: he couldn't have made that decision. And what was more: he had been a complete and _utter_ idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, my love, don't forsake me  
> Take what the water gave me"  
> \- Florence + the Machine//What the Water Gave Me


	4. i am the one

                It is the Fifth Blight, and they are headed to Orzammar.

                As they walk the long dirt road-- _Maker_ , he wishes they had some horses--Alistair can't keep from cutting glances at Zevran and Lyna, casually chatting away as if Zevran hadn't _very recently_ tried to kill her. It unnerves him--not only because of the ease with which she accepted an assassin into their increasingly ragtag group, but because of the fact that, well, he's never seen her talk this much.

                Ever.

                She talks to Alistair, sometimes, but rarely without some subtle undercurrent of malice. She talks to the _witch_ more, a fact that baffles and annoys Alistair to no end. She talks to her mabari even more than _that_ (which, it occurs to him suddenly, is more than a little bit sad). She doesn't talk to Sten much, but Alistair suspects that it's more the case that Sten doesn't talk to _her_. So the only person Lyna talks to less than Alistair is Leliana, yet even there he's caught a smirk or two in response to the latter's crafty and well-placed compliments.

                So why _Zevran_?

                He supposes it's because of…the elf thing. They are, definitely, both elves. Pointy ears and such. And…tattoos. What's with the tattoos, anyway? He knows they're a Dalish thing--though he isn't quite sure why Zevran has them too--but he'll be damned if he's going to ask Lyna about it. Whenever he asks about a Dalish Thing, the look she gives him makes him feel about two inches tall.

                So, he supposes, there's only one other person to ask.

                That night, in camp, he and Zevran are both awake, as Alistair refuses to let Zevran take watch alone. Usually these hours are spent in somber silence, yet tonight Alistair takes a seat beside his companion, their backs to the dying fire, looking out into woods that seem to swallow up the moonlight.

                "Zevran," Alistair finally manages, with some difficulty.

                Zevran's face lights with a grin; instantly he hooks his arm around Alistair's shoulders. Alistair only tenses in response. "Ah," Zevran sighs, "so the handsome Warden decides to speak to me at last? Have you finally realized that I am no threat to our lovely leader?"

                "Ah--sure," Alistair replies distractedly. "Listen, can I ask you a question? About--about elves?"

                Zevran laughs. "You may, but I am not exactly an authority on the subject. I was raised in a whorehouse until the age of seven, you know, and then sold to the Crows. But what do you wish to know?"

                Alistair shifts, uncomfortably, unsure of how to phrase the question. "What's with the tattoos?" he asks, and Zevran laughs again. "Mine are a Crow thing, and Lyna's are a Dalish thing--completely different. I suspect you are not as interested in mine?" he says, with a wink. "To tell the truth, I only know that Dalish tattoos represent elven gods. Aside from that, I am as clueless as you, my curious friend."

                " _Ri-ight_ ," Alistair drawls, pulling Zevran's arm off of his shoulders. "Well, thanks, I suppose."

                "Anytime."

 

*

 

                It is still the Fifth Blight, and they have been in the Deep Roads for _weeks_.

                Alistair isn't sure how much more of this he can take. Signs of the darkspawn are everywhere: their acrid stench thickens the air; their whispering echoes from every corner; their corpses litter the ground like decaying leaves. Aside from that, Oghren's  persistent belching and crude remarks are enough to drive any man crazy, Leliana's constant positivity is starting to become grating, and Morrigan--well, Morrigan is a bitch.

                Yet despite his own struggling, he can tell that Lyna is struggling more. She would never admit it out loud, of course, but he can tell from the stiffness of her spine and her increasing sloppiness in battle. She has fallen into a silence that he hasn't seen since Ostagar, and keeps looking at the stone above them as if it would crack and suddenly reveal the sky.

                He feels bad for her.

                So he's resolved to ask her. He knows this isn't the best time--in fact, it is quite possibly the _worst_ time--but even being angry at him would take her mind off their situation. But he quite can't bring himself to ask until, one night, he hears a strangled cry from her tent.

                Cautiously, he pokes his head in, and nudges her shoulder. He wouldn't dare to do it if he hadn't known that she'd been sleeping in her armor lately--it was simple armor, just Dalish leather, and while he was sure it couldn't be comfortable, it probably made her feel more secure to be so prepared in the heart of darkspawn territory.

                She cries out again, and he nudges her again, slightly harder this time. She wakes with a sudden gasp, drenched in sweat, and Alistair nearly jumps backward out of the tent--but, just as fast, her hand darts out to grab his; a jolt of electricity surges up to his shoulder. His startled eyes meet hers, and only then can he see how haggard and how terrified she looks.

                "Stay," she blurts out, desperately, "just a minute."

                He hesitates a moment, then lowers himself onto the floor of the tent, hunching over slightly to fit under its ceiling. She releases his hand and sits up, running her hands through her silver hair, gasping for breath. Alistair tries, as he always does, not to look at her midriff.

                "The archdemon is close," she says, her voice trembling and miserable. Alistair nods cautiously. "You're more sensitive than I am--joining during a Blight and all," he replies.

                Lyna is still shaking, and he decides that now is as good a time as any. "I've been meaning to ask you," he blurts, "what your tattoos mean."

                She blinks, a faraway look in her eye, and absently touches her face with her fingertips. "Huh? My--vallaslin?" Her eyes focus on him, confusion giving way to suspicion before settling into something resembling a vague sadness. She draws her knees to her chest, her gaze shifting to a corner of the tent.

                "It's for Ghilan'nain, Mother of the Halla, most beloved of Andruil," she murmurs. "It--the vallaslin--it means I'm an adult. I had them only--only half a year before…" she trails off, her eyes glazing over. Alistair feels a sharp pang of sympathy as it occurs to him, once again, how much she's lost.

                "I was always enamored of Ghilan'nain. As a child it was because of her white hair and her love for animals. As I grew older I came to admire her strength and conviction. And her…faith. I…" once again her voice grows quiet, and with a hard swallow, she changes direction. "It is said that our halla lead us into the Beyond, after our deaths. But will they lead even one with the taint?" She looks up with such sorrow in her eyes, now, that Alistair doesn't care that he can't make sense of her words: he is captivated by her vulnerable honesty. Her voice grows quieter still, and he has to strain now to hear her. "I pray to Elgar'nan as she did, and I pray to Mythal as she did, and I pray to Andruil as she did--for I, too, have been left for dead."

                Suddenly her head snaps up. She shifts away from Alistair, as if realizing who she's been talking to all this time. "I--abelas, abelas--I'm sorry," she stammers, "I shouldn't have said this. I want to be alone." Alistair is stunned, but he silently pulls himself up and goes out of the tent.

                Behind him, as he leaves, her can just hear her crying.

 

*

 

                It is the end of the Fifth Blight, and Alistair has never been more relieved in his life.

                He is alive. Lyna Mahariel, the love of his life, is alive. As much as he despises Morrigan, he can't help but be grateful that she's given them this.

                He looks at the throne that was almost his, and thanks the Maker _profusely_ that it isn't. He looks at the crowd, gathered in the throne room, showering praise upon probably the oddest group to ever be honored by the Crown: a failed assassin, a drunken dwarf, a qunari, a mage, and the deadliest Chantry lay-sister he's ever known. He isn't sure how long he's been standing, lost in thought, but eventually Lyna approaches him, looking both giddy and nervous at once. Before he can speak, she says, "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

                She takes him by the hand and pulls him toward a woman standing alone in the crowd, an elf with gray hair and a tattooed face. "This," Lyna says, "is Ashalle, the woman who raised me. Ashalle, this is my--this is Alistair."

                Ashalle looks him up and down, and for a moment he's afraid that she'll pronounce him unfit to be with Lyna and take her away back to the clan. But quickly she smirks, reaching out to squeeze Lyna's hand, and says, "Aneth ara, Alistair." And he knows that phrase, because Lyna taught it to him, and he's so thankful that he does as he echoes back, in an awkward tongue, "Aneth ara."

                They exchange various pleasantries until the apprehensive Lyna is whisked away by Leliana to meet some-or-another-noble, and before a pregnant silence can grow between them Alistair drops his voice and asks Ashalle, "May I ask you something?" She nods. "What can you tell me about Ghilan'nain?"

                "Clever boy," Ashalle says, "you _do_ know the way to her heart." Alistair can feel his ears flushing red, and for a moment he thinks he shouldn't have bothered asking. But the teasing sparkle in her eye quickly disappears, and her voice takes on the tone of a knowledge running centuries-deep.  "They say Ghilan'nain was one of the People…"

 

*

 

                It is a month after the Fifth Blight, and Lyna is getting ready to go home.

                Not permanently, of course. As much as it saddens her, she doesn't think she can ever fully go back to that life. But she will go and visit them for a while before she heads to Amaranthine where she, a Dalish elf, will serve as Warden-Commander.  Alistair, much to her ire, has been given business elsewhere, but he is set to join her at Vigil's Keep after a few months, and Lyna thinks she can live with that.

                He has already left, and so Lyna wakes up alone in the bed they'd been sharing in the Royal Palace. She pulls on her Dalish armor, still more comfortable to her than any of the fancy shemlen things she's picked up, and gathers the few weapons and treasures she feels worth keeping; the rest she'll leave behind. A bundle of food that she'd asked for yesterday--dried meats, nuts, fruits, breads, and fine hard cheeses--waits by the door for her. She takes it and slips into the hall, her mabari plodding faithfully beside.

                It's almost fun, sneaking out of the castle before sunrise. She's grown weary of being waited on, and she's far overstayed Anora's welcome. She slinks like a shadow through the dark stone halls, periodically readjusting the various bundles that she's carrying, and soon makes it out into the dewy morning and really feels like she can _breathe_ again.

                She crosses the grounds to the royal stables. Anora had promised her a mount of her choosing, but Lyna would probably take one even if she _hadn't_ ; she's had enough of trekking across Ferelden on foot for a lifetime, and she knows her sweet wardog can keep up with her even on horseback. She wanders down the corridor, looking over each horse in turn--Creators, why did shemlen breed their horses so _big_ \--until her eyes stop on a familiar form that takes her breath away.

                She moves carefully toward it, as if it were only some cruel trick of the light--but no, it is _real_ , and it must be for her. She runs her hand reverently over the curving horns, lets it nuzzle her palm with its soft, wet nose, and her heart is fuller with faith than it has been since she left. "Andaran atish'an, halla," she murmurs, and as she moves to reach for a bridle, she notices the white ribbon tied loosely around its neck, and the small bit of parchment attached.

_"For ma vhenan, my goddess._

_-A"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am the one  
> Who will live on."  
> \- Dragon Age: Inquisition OST//I Am the One


	5. proposal

                It felt like the world was going to end.

                In a way, it was. Because a number of things could happen tomorrow, and none of them were ideal. Riordan could defeat the archdemon as planned, and then--what? She'd be left to a life without purpose; a life of no clan, no children; a life of 30 years of nightmares and regrets before she had to march herself down into the blighted Deep Roads to die.

                But that was the _optimistic_ outcome; she was putting so much trust in a shem that she'd only just met. Maybe Riordan got smooshed by an ogre. Maybe she had to slay the archdemon herself, the damned thing that clawed and whispered in her dreams, and maybe Alistair would push her aside and do it himself because he was just that brave and that _foolish_ and--

                "…and maybe we'll _all_ die. Mythal…" she sighed, leaning heavily against the cold wall of the hallway, her bow clattering roughly on the stone as she did. She was going to drive herself crazy. She wanted to see Alistair, to fall helpless into his strong and scarred arms; she wanted to visit Wynne and take solace in her firm, gentle wisdom; she wanted to run out of this castle and keep running until she hit the Waking Sea.  More than anything, though, she wanted to return to her room and say every prayer she knew to every god she had. It was the only thing that could bring her real comfort now.

                So she heaved herself away from the wall, and made the weary walk down to her room. Even her delicate footsteps seemed to echo loud and endlessly, as if the air itself would mock her, and there was a terrible weight on her chest. _Melava inan enansal, ir su araval tu elvaral, u na emma abelas...._ She turned the corner, and nothing could have quite prepared her for the sight awaiting her in her room.

                "Do not be alarmed. It is only I."

                "Morrigan," Lyna said, cautious and level--but undeniably curious. She hadn't seen the witch since--well, since she left. And now here she stood, pretty-as-you-please, regarding her with only a cold smirk like the one she'd held--or hid behind--when they first met. Lyna did not move from the doorway, but slowly let her bow and quiver to the floor, her eyes tracking Morrigan all the while.

                After a long moment, Morrigan simply said, "I have a plan. A way out. The loop in your hole." Lyna scoffed, moving in to lean not-so-casually against her bedpost. "You'll have to be more specific than that."

                Morrigan seemed to ignore her, walking closer with the kind of careful swagger that could only be a practiced act. "I know what happens when the archdemon dies. I know a Grey Warden must be sacrificed, and that sacrifice could be you. I have come to tell you this does not need to be."

                Lyna stiffened, swept her gaze to the dusty floor. "It will be Riordan. He has decided this."

                "And what, do you think, are the chances he will succeed?" Morrigan asked, the words cutting uncomfortably close to Lyna's heart. The witch's voice softened, and Lyna turned her eyes upward once more. "I offer a way out," Morrigan said, "a way out for all the Grey Wardens, that there need be no sacrifice."

                Lyna stayed quiet, but she uncrossed her arms from where they'd guarded her chest. Morrigan continued, "A ritual…performed on the eve of battle, in the dark of night."

                Something--a flutter of lightness--stirred in her chest, though she dared not acknowledge it. "What is it?" she managed through a hard swallow, and Morrigan moved once more to sit carefully on Lyna's bed. "What I propose is this," she said, "convince Alistair to lay with me. Here, tonight. And from this ritual a child shall be conceived within me. The child will bear the taint. And when the archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon..."

                Lyna shook, recoiling backwards as if physically repelled. "Ar tu nadin!" she spat, her right hand coiling around the knife at her hip. " _This_ is why you come back, Morrigan? To steal away the one thing precious to me in this blighted world? To _use_ him in some kind of--selfish--shem'alas! Era'harel! Ma emma harel!" Her voice grew steadily, and even she was surprised at this fount of anger she'd found within herself. She dropped her voice into a low hiss, looking away bitterly. "Dread Wolf take you and your _ritual_."

                 Morrigan had stayed quiet and stony as ever through that short tirade, but a concerned crease grew between her eyebrows, betraying her hurt. "Lyna," she said, "I came back because this will save your life. I…care about you. Is that so unbelievable?"

                "I--" Lyna's breath came out in a sharp and trembling exhale, carrying with it her rapidly fading rage. She sat beside Morrigan on the bed, a more-than-comfortable distance between them. "Morrigan--why did you leave?" She tried to hide the hurt in her voice, and failed. "I thought we were friends."

                Morrigan's voice grew colder, suddenly, and she looked toward the fireplace that bathed the room in warm light. "As did I. But you have other friends here. I…did not. When you refused to help me, I realized that I no longer had any reason to stay. You did not need me here."

                Lyna shifted uncomfortably, though she was glad that Morrigan was finally dropping her hardened façade. This was the Morrigan that she'd come to know: a young woman as lost and out of her element as Lyna was. But unlike Lyna, Morrigan had never had a real family; never had _friends_. Morrigan had never really had anything.

                "Ir abelas, Morrigan. I'm sorry," she sighed, moving closer on the bed so that their arms just barely touched. "But I had my reasons. Your mother is…known to the Dalish. We call her Asha'belannar: Woman of Many Years." She rested her head on Morrigan's shoulder. "I had already betrayed my people in so many ways. I could not do it again."

                "That…I did _not_ know," Morrigan murmured, looking as surprised as she could ever look. "They respect her? Why? She is only human." Lyna shrugged, her voice now a sorrowful whisper. "Why would we not? We are elvhen. We respect old things, old magics."

                "Like this ritual?"

                "I--suppose." Lyna replied.

                "I did learn it from Flemeth," Morrigan smirked. "That alone should convince you that I would not be doing it if I did not care. Whatever you choose to believe about me, Lyna, that much is true."

                Lyna sighed again, and Morrigan, with an unsure hand, began to comb her fingers through Lyna's hair. It was an odd gesture, something Flemeth had done to her as a child, but it seemed to comfort Lyna; she relaxed further into Morrigan's shoulder.

                "Alistair won't be happy about this," Lyna mumbled. Morrigan chuckled. "He will do it if you ask, lovesick fool that he is."

                "That's what I'm afraid of," she replied with a snort.

                "He--" Morrigan started, hesitantly. "He is…good for you. And you for him." Lyna craned her head to meet Morrigan's eyes, shocked by this naked admission, spoken without any ounce of derision. It was almost a blessing, from the last person Lyna expected to ever give it. Something new occurred to her, suddenly.

                "You're going to leave again, aren't you?"

                "Yes," Morrigan said, her voice unwavering. "I doubt the Crown will tolerate a famed apostate stalking their halls for much longer. And when--if I have the child, I wish to raise it apart from all this. Away from Circles and templars. Neither you nor Alistair will have to see it."

                Lyna thought that she should feel hurt again, but somehow she understood this. She stood on legs that felt weak, her head spinning with a thousand different thoughts. One emerged from the rest that seemed the most logical, and she spoke it without any trace of emotion, a voice fit for a hunter and a leader of armies: "I'll go talk to him."

                "I await your decision," Morrigan said, watching her go, and felt a great weight lift from her heart.  The fire popped and crackled in the new silence. A dog howled somewhere in the distance, followed by another. The future unfolded before her like a great ocean, at once both dangerous and freeing.


	6. and if my heart should somehow stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for DAI. This isn't canon in my playthrough but I wanted to write it anyway. Also, the ending is totally rushed because this had been sitting unfinished on my computer for about a month.

_"Please take care of him. Like me, he was instrumental in ending the Last Blight. I trust his compassion and his strength above any other's, and I would not go though such effort to overcome our Callings only to lose him to your Inquisition."_

_"My dearest Lyna,_

_It is with deepest regret I must inform you that Alistair is trapped in the Fade, and presumed dead. Inquisitor Adaar and Serah Hawke send their condolences. I will come to see you as soon as I can._

_-Leliana"_

 

                It was less than two weeks after she sent out her letter that she received one back from Leliana, carried by bird to the cramped room of the inn where she'd been staying to compile her research.  The letter was edged in black, and she'd opened it with trembling hands, a sick pit of worry growing in her gut.

                _Trapped in the Fade._

Lured by a demon again? Surely not. Physically? How, and why?

                ' _Presumed?'_

                The first to come visit her, quite unexpectedly, was Zevran. Lyna had no idea how he'd heard the news, but she was glad: she sat in his lap like a child, saying nothing, and Zevran held her, for once in his life saying nothing as well. He stroked her hair and rubbed soothing circles into her back while she stared into the distance, her face a mask of stone, until she finally fell asleep and he tucked her into bed and slept on the covers beside her.

                In the morning he brought up soup and bread from the inn's kitchen, and the whole day was spent in silence, Lyna staring thoughtfully out the room's small, dirty window and Zevran carving some stray piece of wood with one of his smaller knives. Near sundown, he came up behind her and pressed what he'd made into her hand; she slowly uncurled her fingers, and sitting there in her palm was a tiny wooden mabari, just like the one she'd lost only a few years ago. She laughed, then, a tear-filled laugh, and whispered: "Ma serannas." And Zevran chuckled and replied: "There's that lovely smile."

                He stayed with her a week before he had to move on--he was always moving, lest the Crows catch up to him again. But Leliana came shortly after, and caught Lyna in a tight embrace right away, and presented her with a bundle of various sweets and fineries and honey wine, as well as Alistair's remaining things. Lyna set those aside, and did not look at them long.

                They ate the sweets and drank the honey wine--Lyna drinking significantly more than Leliana--and talked of various things: the Inquisition and its various projects; Amaranthine Keep; the difference between Ferelden and Orlesian slippers. It was only after the second-and-a-half glass of wine that Lyna dared to ask about the missing piece of her heart.

                "It was incredibly brave of him," Leliana told her, placing her hands over Lyna's. "Hawke and the Inquisitor would not have been able to escape without the time he bought them. Lady Adaar spoke of how noble he was: he did it without a second thought."

                Lyna's chest felt hollow; she cast her gaze aside.

                "Not even a second thought for me?"

                "Oh, Lyna, that isn't what I meant," Leliana said hurriedly. "Believe me: his _only_ thoughts were of you. The Rift is as much a danger to you as to anyone else."

                Then, for the first time, Lyna allowed herself to really cry.

Leliana had to leave the next day; the Inquisition needed her, and the endless call of duty was something Lyna understood all too well. She left Lyna with a tender kiss on the cheek, and said, "Rest well, my friend. He is waiting for you in the Fa--the Beyond."

                Lyna assumed her visitors to be over with then. She thought, absently, to say a prayer for Alistair: but part of her was not ready; some foolish part of her still held hope that he could return. As she'd hoped with Tamlen. And, well, she hadn't been entirely wrong.

                Oh, Creators.

                She felt sick. Ten years, all gone to nothing. A death she hadn't even been present for. And, Mythal, hadn't it been _her_ idea to travel separately? So she could--why? So she could chase after rumors and hearsay so that they wouldn't…

                A glance over to her stacks of books and parchment. A glance to the fire crackling in the corner of the room.  And, numbly, she watched her own hands gather her months and years of research and hold them over the fire. What was it all good for now? The Calling would be a relief when it came.

                Yet…she couldn't bring herself to let go. And then she heard a firm rapping on her door, and so she gingerly set her books and papers down again, and opened it to find someone she hadn't seen in a very long time.

                Morrigan.

                She stood in silent disbelief for a long moment. How did she always manage to show up at the worst moments? Or the best, she supposed. Honestly, she couldn't tell if she wanted to hit her or kiss her.

                In the end she settled for neither. "Come in," she said, her voice level. They sat comfortably apart on the edge of the bed, neither speaking a word. _Creators, isn't this familiar_.

                "I am sorry," Morrigan finally said. Lyna sighed, long and deep. "I know."

                Lyna chewed on her lip and glanced at Morrigan. "I hate you."

                "I know."

                Lyna laughed, and leaned her head on Morrigan's shoulder; she still smelled of woods and wildness after so many years.

                "So the eluvian didn't kill you after all?"

                "Indeed not."

                "Grand." Lyna's voice caught somewhere between relief and bitterness, and Morrigan fell silent once more. After a while, she offered, "I had been serving as an advisor to Empress Celene. But now it seems the Inquisition requires my help."

                Lyna snorted. "How altruistic of you. People don't give you enough credit."

                "Well _that_ is certainly true. But 'tis also a good opportunity for me to continue my research. As well as a safe haven for me and…" Morrigan trailed off, uncertain. Lyna stiffened. "And?"

                "And Kieran. My son."

                Lyna exhaled heavily, slowly pulling away from the witch. Morrigan chewed on her lip, unsure of how to continue. The silence grew pregnant, but before she could say something else, Lyna issued a strained, tearful whisper: "Does he look like him?"

                "He does."

                Lyna trembled, caught somewhere between happiness, sadness, and vicious jealousy. She couldn't bear to think of that bastard, the child she'd never been able to have--yet she was comforted, in a strange way, simply by his existence. And anyway--he was the reason why she was alive at all.

                Morrgian continued, gently. "He is such a sweet boy, and so sincere. And he _certainly_ did not get that from me." Lyna chuckled, and Morrigan smiled just slightly, relieved that her friend was not bitter toward Kieran, who mattered to her more than anything.

                "I've told him all about you, Lyna. I think he would like to meet you someday."

                Morrigan covered Lyna's hand with her own, and the Warden-Commander  sighed gently.

                "I'd like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cause even when the flower dies, something’s by it's side  
> A helping hand or a kiss goodbye, to ease it on its way"  
> \- James Vincent McMorrow//And If My Heart Should Somehow Stop


	7. spider and i

               "Fenedhis! Fenedhis'aan lasa…delavir harellan…len'alas lath'din…Fen'Harel ver na!"

               Lyna hissed, on increasingly short breath, about every elvhen curse she could think of--regrettably, the list wasn't all that long. She punctuated each venomous syllable with an arrow, sticking deep and sudden into tained and rotten flesh.

They were in the Deep Roads. They were headed back to Orzammar. They had a crown.

               Lyna was grumpy.

               They'd hit a particularly nasty patch of darkspawn, and they were struggling to not be overwhelmed. Lyna, Leliana, and Morrigan were all doing their best to pick off enemies from a distance, but the other, a collective whirlwind of steel and iron, were still surrounded.

               Lyna struggled to concentrate. Her mind was addled and her thoughts fuzzy--she couldn't sleep restfully down here in the stale, stuffy air thick with the stenches of blood and blight, and while the ability to sense darkspawn was usually a boon, down here it was a blaring distraction, the presences of dozens of darkspawn crawling like ants up her spine, and calling her attention away from the ones that she could already see and hear.

               Having run out of elvhen words--and not quite feeling like swearing in the common tongue--she pulled back an arrow, her eye on a genlock that was coming up behind Alistair, already engaged--rather skillfully, Lyna had to admit--with two. Yet as she came back to full draw, her elbow bumped a Hurlock behind her that she'd somehow failed to notice; it grabbed hold of her forearm, loosing Lyna’s grip and releasing her arrow. It took off in a wobbly path, missing her target and whizzing just past Alistair's nose.

For the briefest moment he met her eyes with annoyed shock--before he realized the situation that she was in.

               Before Lyna had a chance to even struggle, a blast of frost magic stunned the hurlock that had grabbed her; without hesitation she reclaimed her arm, bashed the hurlock to the ground, and loosed a quick arrow into its eye.

               She looked back at Alistair, who had since taken control of his own little skirmish; Morrigan was handling herself easily; Oghren was more or less cutting a path of corpses in his wake. Lyna hesitated, blinking heavily, unsure for a long second of where to shoot next.

               When she felt hot, rancid breath on her neck the decision was made for her; she dropped her bow, wincing slightly at the sound of the wood clattering to the ground. In one motion she turned and drew the knife from her belt, plunging it into where she had thought that the darkspawn was--and met only air. She stumbled forward, nearly tumbling to the ground as she tried to correct her balance.

               In the next moment she felt cold metal slick into her back, between her ribs--and twist.

               And she felt something hot and acid--it was poison, poison, a thought surfaced from her muddying mind--icing through her veins, and before her vision clouded she heard someone's voice cry out "Lyna!" and she had just enough sense left to wobble and fall on her side, and not on the blade in her back.

 

               "Honestly, Alistair, she'll be alright. The blade didn't hit anything major, and that poison was weak. We just need to let her rest for a while."

               "Can you really blame me for not trusting _Morrigan_? She's no more a healer than the dog is."

               "If you want to, you can go in and look, but please, try not to wake her."

               Lyna stirred, hearing muffled voices outside of the tent. Her head was thick and her mouth dry and cottony, like she'd been sleeping too long--far too long. Her hand fluttered down to her midsection, finding the rough-soft texture of a bandage there, just beginning to soak through with blood.

               She groaned. _Right._

               Just as she began, with some difficulty, to push herself into a seated position, Alistair pushed his way through the front flaps of the tent--then stopped, meeting her wide and stunned ice-blue eyes.

               "You're awake! Maker's breath, that's a relief. I--"

               His eyes flicked down to Lyna's hand, holding a blanket up over her nearly-bare chest.

               "I…should be going," he finished nervously, backing out of the tent in a slumped half-crouch.

               Lyna watched him go silently, feeling sort of awkward and sort of uncomfortable--but not really embarrassed, nor really angry.

After a long moment of staring after the tent flap, she groped in the dim light beside her, finding, to her happy surprise, a flask there. Gratefully, she drank most of the stale-tasting water inside, saving the last bit to splash over her face and across the back of her neck. She ran a hand through her hair, feeling it matted and sweaty against her skin; the poison had given her a fever, she presumed.

She replaced the flask and felt around her again for her clothes, finding them neatly folded--by Leliana, she guessed--though still fairly dirty and crusted with blood, both darkspawn’s and hers. Next to them was a large, soft nightshirt, belonging to whom she was unsure.

               Though initially resistant to the idea of wearing someone else's nightshirt, she imagined, for a moment, trying to pull on leather armor while nursing a healing stab wound. With a wince, she elected to wear the nightshirt and a pair of soft, worn boots.

               Quickly dressed, she emerged from the tent, scanning her surroundings in the darkness of the Deep Roads. Her eyes settled on Alistair's silhouette, slumped in a tired, pensive slouch by the fire.

Lyna walked over, less stealthily than she wished, and settled next to him, staring at the spitting fire for a long moment.

               Finally, she spoke.

               "You were worried about me."

               Alistair's eyes flicked to her, and he snorted. "Worry about the only other Grey Warden in all of Ferelden?” he teased. “Perish the thought."

To Alistair's surprise, he thought he saw Lyna cracking a smile, but it was gone in a flicker of the firelight. They settled back into silence, and Lyna hummed softly.

Then she said, "I think I need some new armor."

               Alistair barked a surprised half-laugh. Was she--joking around? With _him_? In the firelight he could see her smiling very softly, and he replied, with lightness in his voice, "Yours does leave some things…exposed." He gestured at his own midsection, and Lyna chuckled quietly.  Alistair couldn't tell whether he was proud or disturbed.

               "It's traditional Dalish armor," Lyna started, staring into the fire. "I wanted to wear it because--" her voice seized, and she cleared her throat. "But," she continued, looking sideways at Alistair with a glint in her eye, "it’s meant for hunting. Agility, and flexibility--keeping up with prey. Not for close combat with darkspawn."

               "You were a hunter?" Alistair asked softly, as if he, in all his clumsiness, could shatter such a delicate moment. It was rare that she spared a conversation for him, and rarer still that she revealed anything about herself.

               Lyna nodded. "But," she sighed, with a reluctant sort of grimace. "Not--now.” She shook her head. “It was stupid of me not to wear something more protective."

               Alistair shrugged. "Maybe. But I think I understand why you did it."

               The smile she gave him was soft and almost tender, and Alistair felt a distinct fluttering in his chest that he immediately did his best to ignore.

               Lyna absently rubbed at the bandages underneath the nightshirt, putting slight pressure on the wound with her slender fingers as if to test its severity. With a quiet hiss she said, "I can't believe I got stabbed. How long was I asleep?"

               "Better part of a day, from what I can tell--not that it's easy down here." Alistair said. He hesitated, then added: "Leliana says you'll need to rest for another two days before we can keep moving."

               Lyna met his gaze with a look of near-outrage--though as thoughts, one-after-another, flew through her clearing mind, her face settled into a petulant scowl. "What does Leliana know?" she grumbled.

               "More than she lets on, I think," Alistair replied, doing his best to smother a laugh; he thought it best to change the subject then, before her ever-present rage turned on him. "She also said you'd need to eat when you woke up. Are you hungry?"

               Lyna frowned deeply. "Yes," she admitted. She was voracious, actually--not that voracious hunger wasn't a familiar feeling to her ever since the Joining.

               "I'll go get us some food, then," Alistair said, disappearing before Lyna could comment. In his absense, she stared into the glowing embers of the fire, rubbing her slender fingers up and down the length of the wound.

 

               Alistair brought back much more food than Lyna thought prudent--they'd been on fairly strict rationing down here--but she couldn't stop herself from wolfing it all down nonetheless. Her dog, who'd been asleep when she emerged from her tent, had since come to rest his blocky head on her lap; she lovingly ran her fingernails through his fur as he whined and licked at her like a fussy mother cat.

               Neither said anything through the whole meal and for quite a long time afterward, and the silence was beginning to grow dense.

               "I may have been a little unfair to you," Lyna finally said, so quietly that Alistair wasn't altogether sure she'd said anything. He looked at her, trying to control the surprise on his face; she wasn't meeting his gaze, but instead staring down at the dog, scratching him slowly and softly behind one ear.

               She sighed. "You're not--that bad." Her mouth opened and closed again in a frown.

               Alistair waited for her to continue, but when she didn't, he replied, "Can I ask you something?"

               Finally Lyna's eyes came to meet his; she didn't reply, but her raised eyebrows were a clear enough affirmation.

               "Is there any _particular_ reason why you disliked me?"

               Lyna laughed, softly. "You mean besides your being a human? No, not really."

               Alistair felt somehow both relieved and insulted.

               "It's very hard for us to trust humans," Lyna continued.

               "You trust Morrigan," Alistair pointed out, the distaste barely concealed in his voice.

               "Morrigan is--different. More like us. I think her mother--" Lyna frowned and shook her head. "Never mind. The point is that if the Dalish didn't distrust humans, we'd probably all be dead by now."

               Alistair was silent. He wanted to disagree, but--what could he say?

               "It didn't help that you were a templar," Lyna continued.

               "I'm not _technically_ a templar," Alistair said with a small frown. "What do you have against templars, anyway?" he asked. "I mean--specifically."

               Lyna paused for a brief moment, then replied, "Our Keepers are our leaders. They preserve our culture. They're also apostates.” Her gaze shifted back to the fire, its undulating glow shrouding her in a dreamy haze. “If the templars came after them, we’d be shattered." Something in the tone of her voice haunted Alistair then, an echo sounding through some long-abandoned hall.

Lyna looked back at him, and shrugged. "I think most humans have the good sense to leave us alone. But the possibility is there."

               Alistair shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. Lyna, sensing this, huffed and said, "The point of all of this is just to say that--I was unfair to you and I'm sorry." The words tumbled out in a chagrined mess. "I was wrong about you. And if we're stuck in this together then I think we should be--"

               "Friends?" Alistair finished, a mischievous grin sneaking across his face. Lyna couldn't help but return the smile, despite her embarrassment at admitting she was wrong.

               "Yes. _Friends_." Her reply was teasing, almost sarcastic--how different, Alistair thought, from the cold and distant woman he'd been travelling with for so many weeks now. But he didn't mind.

               "So," Lyna said after a long moment, her eyes once more on the now-dying fire, "can you--tell me? About yourself?"

               He did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a messy chapter but it's been a while since I've posted anything.
> 
> Also for the probably two of you who read this at all, I've been toying with the idea of a multi-chapter Anders-as-Inquisitor retelling of DA:I. Would anyone be interested in that?

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated. Title is taken from "Hunting My Dress" by Jesca Hoop.


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